Miss Devon's Choice: A Sweet Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 5)

by Sally Britton

  But then there were the dark-brown eyes, searching and deep, surrounded by black lashes that many a woman would’ve envied. What did those eyes see when they looked at her? A person’s face rarely gave an accurate accounting of their life.

  And she saw the other scars, familiar enough to her from her acquaintance with older people, with merchants and the lower classes. Smallpox. It was rare to see the tiny scars on the faces of nobles, especially one as young as he. If he had the illness in childhood, she could well imagine how difficult his life would’ve been among the peerage.

  Rebecca’s mother had ensured her daughters met with Doctor Edward Jenner himself to receive their protection from the dreaded disease. Her father had only agreed when he learned the elite members of society were all rushing to receive the treatment, an inoculation. Lucas had told her last year there was talk of making it available throughout the nation, even using government funds to pay for every citizen to gain the protection a simple injection could give.

  Apparently, Christian Hundley had not been fortunate enough to receive the defense she and her sisters had enjoyed. The tiny marks upon his face likely caused many to ignore his other fine features, especially if his temperament was similarly damaged.

  “Are you quite finished?” he asked, sounding bored rather than irritated.

  Oh, bother. How long had she been staring at him? Who else had seen? Heat rushed up her neck and into her cheeks.

  “I apologize,” she said, lowering her eyes to the level of his stick-pin. “That was very rude of me. But one does not meet their future husband every day.” She tried for levity in her words, but they fell flatly even to her own ears.

  He said nothing, but the gloved hand at his side slowly curl into a fist. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears at the evidence of his displeasure.

  “You—you were very good, to come all this way. You couldn’t have received the invitation very long ago.” She must look for the good in him, any praiseworthy action or trait. It would be easier to admire him, to come to know him, that way.

  “I had little choice in the matter.”

  His words doused the flicker of hope she’d tried to build upon.

  “Oh.” Her shoulders fell and she dared to look up at him to see he was staring out the window into the darkness. It was raining again. Droplets splattered against the window, tapping out an irregular beat.

  “I hope we can use this time to get to know one another,” she finally said. She brought her hands together in front of her, pretending to straighten the fingers of her gloves.

  “Do you?” he asked, that tone of disinterest lacing his words again.

  Rebecca felt another blush rising in her cheeks. Why wouldn’t he at least try to be civil? If he was thus with her, someone who was actually important to his life, how must he be with others? After his intense stare of their first meeting, she never would’ve guessed him to be cold, and perhaps unfeeling. She bit her tongue against accusing him of being both.

  He has had a difficult day of travel. Perhaps she ought to excuse his behavior. He might merely be overtired. Heavens, she could be rather grumpy herself after a full day in the carriage.

  “Lord Easton,” she said, daring to lift her gaze to his face again. His expression remained as indifferent as it had been before. “I am pleased that you are here, but I understand the day’s travel has likely taken its toll on you. I hope we may speak more when you’ve recovered.” She curtsied and walked away before he could say a word or even bow to her.

  She made it halfway across the room before Aunt Jacqueline came to her side.

  “Your rudeness,” her aunt hissed, “will be noticed. Take yourself in hand, Rebecca, or I will. Do not turn your back on that man again.”

  Rebecca’s spine stiffened. “Yes, Aunt.” She was rescued an instant later by Virginia.

  “Mother, won’t you come here? Lady Francillon has been sharing some London news with me and I would like to know your opinion.” Virginia held her hand out, entreating her mother.

  Aunt Jacqueline would never turn down an opportunity to share her views on anything. She gave one last frown of warning to Rebecca before going to join the married ladies at a collection of chairs near the fire.

  The room had swiftly been divided by the different groups of the party. The titled gentlemen, with the exception of Christian, stood nearer the door, speaking of politics. The married women, and Aunt Jacqueline, were gossiping. This left the younger people sitting on sofas in the center of the room. Rebecca went that direction.

  Lord Sharpeton, his sister Lady Felicity, and Miss Dunhill, and the other two young gentlemen present all chatted amiably amid plates of cake and cups of coffee. Mr. Harold Berwyn and Mr. Alfred Berwyn made up the rest of the party.

  “Ah, Miss Devon. Excellent. Now we have even numbers to play a game,” Mr. Harold Berwyn said, clapping his hands together.

  She glanced over her shoulder to where Lord Easton stood at the window, his back to the party as though he intended to spend the evening brooding.

  Despite her forgiving words, Rebecca remained shaken from his coolness during their encounter, and she’d no wish to blush more in his presence.

  “What sort of game?” she asked, then spent the remainder of the evening trying to pretend her betrothed didn’t stand silently in a corner like a character from a Gothic novel.

  Chapter Six

  Waking in a strange bed, no matter how comfortable it might be, always left Christian unsettled. It reminded him too much of the first time he woke to find himself in England. Everything had been foreign to him, from the cool mists curling at his windows to the liveried servants his grandfather employed. England didn’t even smell like home.

  Rising with the sun, Christian longed for days spent in the Italian sunlight, the scent of the nearby sea wafting across gold-tinted hills. His mother’s homeland had its share of rain, of course, but it never felt as oppressive as the English mists.

  Dowding made quick work of readying him for the day. Christian left the house by way of the front door and looped around it in search of the kennels. Ajax would be cared for by the earl’s staff, he had no doubt, but he missed the dog’s companionship. At home, Ajax was always at his side, but large animals were rarely tolerated indoors by others. Ladies could have their tiny lapdogs accompany them everywhere and no one batted an eye. Ajax wasn’t exactly small, however.

  After he’d retrieved his dog, Christian made for the lake. Ajax trotted along beside him, ears alert and eyes darting about. Christian wished he could share his dog’s enthusiasm, but until he stood on the very shore of the lake he remained tense. The water, lapping gently at the edge of land, reached through his agitation and soothed him. The only other thing that spoke to his soul as water did was his music.

  He had always loved water. Being near it, upon it, swimming through it, gave his soul more rest than hours spent in an English drawing room. He’d always been near flowing tributaries. As a child in London, before his father fled with him to Italy, he’d walked to the Thames nearly every day with his mother. It must’ve reminded her of her home.

  In Italy, the river near his mother’s village was the Torrente Entella, which poured out into the Liguarian Sea.

  Ajax went sniffing along the shore. Christian followed behind the dog, their path going toward a stand of trees. Beyond the trees, he could see a boathouse. Obtaining permission from the earl to use his equipment for rowing might become necessary if Christian had to endure many nights like the previous one.

  Miss Devon’s dismissal of him when he had proven to be uninterested in her conversation had frustrated him, even if he found speaking to her awkward. The way she had stared unnerved him. Did she count each blemish, each pox-scar against him? She likely only saw the ugly imperfections society had dwelt upon for years.

  He’d much prefer to keep her at a distance. His grandfather didn’t care if he befriended his bride-to-be, only that he appeared to be less than abhorrent to her. The real pu
rpose behind his visit to Kettering was to quiet the rumors that Miss Devon had fled from him, and the secondary benefit was to get to know the peers present.

  Christian paused beneath the trees and leaned back against one of the trunks, facing the lake. Ajax left the shoreline to examine the trees, his tail wagging all the while. New scents and places to explore after a long carriage ride doubtless revived the dog’s spirit, making him more energetic than he was at home.

  Home. It was by sheer force of will Christian pictured his grandfather’s estate instead of the simple cottage where he’d lived for ten years with his father.

  Ajax trotted over to his master and whined, then turned his head to look northward. An approaching rider, a gentleman by the looks of him, had noticed Christian and rode directly toward him.

  Christian pushed away from the tree and straightened his jacket. The gentleman had a good seat, but otherwise Christian couldn’t make out his appearance until he came nearer. He was not a guest from the night before.

  “Good morning,” the man said, pulling up his horse several paces away. “Pardon me, but are you a guest of the earl’s?”

  “I am, sir.” Christian half-bowed. “Lord Easton. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?” He still took pride, even after all these years, of talking without much, if any, hint of his Italian ancestry in his words.

  The man dismounted. He was shorter than Christian by nearly a full head, but he carried himself as one used to sporting would. They were likely near in age, as well.

  “Thomas Gilbert,” the man said, offering his own abbreviated bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Lord Easton. The family has been speaking of little else. My wife will be put out that I met you before she did.” He grinned and took off his right glove, offering his hand. “I’m to be your brother-in-law. I married the middle Devon sister.”

  Hesitating only briefly, Christian stripped off his own glove and shook the man’s hand. “Then you are the one who raises horses.”

  “Indeed. A dream of mine for many years, and finally starting to show fruits for my efforts.” He reached up and gave his horse a pat. Christian glanced at the animal politely, then paused and took in the lines of the beast more carefully. “This is Farfalla. She’s one of my favorites and between foals.”

  “Italian stock, if I’m not mistaken,” Christian said, stepping closer to lay his hand against the mare’s neck. “Beautiful.”

  “You have a good eye.” Gilbert grinned and pulled his glove back on. “Would you come riding with us this morning?”

  “Us?” Christian raised his eyebrows. “I admit my surprise to finding one gentleman up as early as I am, but you imply there are more.”

  “We don’t keep London hours here.” Gilbert chuckled and took the reins of the horse. “I ride with the earl twice a week. I was on my way to meet Lucas when I saw you and thought to introduce myself. Since you are to be family, the invitation is especially sincere.”

  The man spoke plainly, which Christian found refreshing. He considered the offer. While knowing Thomas Gilbert likely would do little for him socially or politically, getting to know connections to the Devon family and earl was likely wise. “If it would not be an intrusion, I could use the exercise.”

  “Excellent.” Gilbert started walking uphill with Christian. The conversation went to horses and riding, which Christian didn’t mind. It wasn’t personal, after all, and a subject in which he felt competent. Rowing and swimming were his preferred sports, but he’d grown up with horses. By the time they reached the house, Christian anticipated the ride almost cheerfully.

  “Ajax, sieda,” he commanded, without thought, intending for the dog to wait at the door while he changed into riding clothes.

  Gilbert raised his eyebrows. “Sieda? Parli Italiano?” The Englishman’s accent wasn’t perfect, but Christian’s heart rose to hear even that much of his beloved language.

  “Sì. Of course. You didn’t know? I thought the family was speaking of nothing but me.” He forced a smile.

  “If they said anything about you knowing Italian, I never heard. It’s mostly been my wife and she’s not— But never mind that. I lived in Italy for two years. How do you come by the language?” He crossed his arms, his eyebrows raised with his question.

  “My mother was Italian. I lived there for a decade, before all the wars.” Christian lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

  “I would never have known. You have no discernible accent. I couldn’t say the same about myself. The families I stayed with in Italy, they were constantly laughing at my British inflections.” Gilbert sighed, shaking his head mournfully.

  “I came back to England when I was fifteen. It didn’t take long for me to realize the accent was detrimental to my scholarship in English schools.” Christian realized he had said more than he meant to and stepped closer to the door. “I will meet you at the stables, Mr. Gilbert.” The other man only tipped his hat in reply and Christian went inside.

  How was it a few words spoken in his mother’s tongue had loosened his own to such an extent? He had no wish to lay his past out before strangers. He was more addled than he’d thought by his situation. More care must be exercised in the future. Sharing any amount of his personal affairs weakened his defenses, making him vulnerable to more targeted attacks. Yet another lesson learned at Eton.

  Yet somehow, he couldn’t picture the amiable Mr. Gilbert as someone to guard against.

  Dowding was still attempting to put Christian’s wardrobe in order, the trunks having come too late in the evening for them to be dealt with the night before. The valet didn’t bother to hide his surprise at Christian’s return.

  “My lord?”

  “My riding things, Dowding.” While his valet could not be counted upon to be a stalwart man in the face of adversity, his efficiency at seeing to Christian’s clothing and grooming needs would be difficult to match. In hardly any time, Christian was back out the door.

  The earl and Mr. Gilbert were waiting for him at the front door, already upon their mounts, while a groom held a tall, golden stallion at the ready for Christian. The animal had good lines and would make nearly as fine a racer as a hunter.

  “Ah, Easton. Glad to hear you’re joining us this morning.” Annesbury’s words were welcoming, but his expression remained fairly neutral.

  “I appreciate time spent outdoors, so the invitation was most welcome.” Christian approached the horse and examined the saddle carefully. “Someone has a good eye,” he said, nodding to the stirrups’ length.

  “It should be close,” the earl said with a shrug. “It’s one of my saddles, and we’re nearly the same height.”

  “Easton’s taller,” Gilbert said cheerily.

  The earl shot the other man a look, raising an eyebrow imperiously. “We’re both taller than you are, Thomas.”

  “Yes, yes. Why men must grow to such unnatural heights, we will never know.” Gilbert was an average height for a gentleman, but obviously stature was a jest between them. It had been years since Christian had shared such amusement with anyone.

  Gilbert turned his attention to Christian. “I think King Lud will suit you well.”

  Naming what looked to be a Spanish horse after a legendary English king struck him as odd, but Christian nodded his acceptance and mounted. Then he gave Ajax, who had remained exactly where Christian left him, the command to heel. His dog’s tail flew high as a flag as they began their ride. Christian followed behind the earl and his future brother-in-law, far enough back to avoid intruding on their conversation. The men had started talking the moment they were underway.

  Not long after they left the house behind, going around the back of the estate and away from the lake, the earl looked over his shoulder.

  “Easton, join us, won’t you?”

  Christian nudged his horse forward. He tried to keep his hold relaxed but it was difficult, given the way his whole body tensed on being addressed.

  “I am at your service, my lord,” Christ
ian said, drawing even with the two riders.

  “Call me Annesbury,” the earl said, surprising Christian with the slightest of smiles. “We’re to be family soon enough. Thomas and I were just discussing your upcoming nuptials. I could not recall—what date has been settled upon?”

  “September eighteenth,” Christian answered without hesitation. The date had been seared into his mind. It was the first Sunday after three weeks of reading the banns that his grandfather and her father could both be in Kettering. It would be the day his life changed, irrevocably—again.

  Gilbert’s eyebrows drew downward. “My wife has wondered about their eldest sister, Mrs. Hastings. Julia.”

  Ah, the sister who had married a physician, in Bath. What had she to do with his wedding date?

  The two men with him exchanged a glance and the earl looked down, fiddling with the reins, while Gilbert cleared his throat.

  “We are in an interesting position, Easton. Julia Hastings has been told she is not welcome in her father’s home or presence. It’s created something of a strain on the whole family, and the sisters, especially.”

  This was news to Christian. “Is the reason for this exclusion too delicate for you to name?” he asked. Surely, a man would have to have good reason to cut off his own daughter. While Christian’s father had sent him away, it had not been with any sort of permanency. In the ton such a thing might happen on occasion, but only after the severest infractions against society were committed.

  “It isn’t delicate at all,” Annesbury said, his voice low. “She married a man of whom her father did not approve. Doctor Nathaniel Hastings, a younger son of a country baron. He hasn’t the connections that would’ve made him a desirable son-in-law.”

  An unequal alliance. How many times had he heard his grandfather utter those words, derisively, almost as if they were a curse, every time the old earl spoke of Christian’s mother and father? It was a thing abhorred by the ton, by people with status and authority. The words had been branded into Christian’s mind and heart. He could not even think of his mother without also calling to mind his grandfather’s sneer.